the prize is won.

Doting on you is one thing. A welcome aid in helping you flourish beneath his tutelage. But the growing attraction he's garnering toward you—someone young enough to have come from him—is a problem.

It is the aforementioned distraction.

Instead of studying charts or emptying the board over the nurses station, he chooses to stare at you. Instead of tugging on gloves during a trauma case, he takes an extra millisecond to brush a palm along your arm or back just to make physical contact. And instead of listening to the more solid differential diagnoses of his fellow attendings or senior residents, he asks for your train of thought just to hear your voice.

His own personal spot of sunshine.

You've slowly become his religion.

He'd be a better physician and teacher for it if he finally managed to create a bit of needed distance and reign in his adulation, but that idea goes right out the window the day you call him an unintended name, and your dynamic soon thereafter shifts entirely.

Treating a UTI is something Robby should've delegated to someone below him so that he could otherwise assist on a trauma case next door, but when he saw you wander into South 10 to aid, he couldn't help himself.

Now that the room is empty, save for the pair of you, you're enmeshed in silence while you each put various packaged supplies away before jumping onto the next case.

"Dad, can you—" Suddenly, and with quiet alarm, you go entirely still.

With shoulders now drawn tightly together, you blink dewy eyes in silent panic.

Oh God. What did you do?

His head snaps back in your direction and Robby studies you with a look of surprise. "What do you need, sweetheart?" he asks quietly while leaning back on his heel. Standing across the room, he attempts to glimpse your face, but you're turned too far away for him to see it.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't mean to. It just came out." Wiping away unexpected tears, you shake your head then continue on.

Robby slowly rounds a gurney and takes calm, measured steps toward you. "It's alright," he reassures soothingly. "I didn't mind."

He's just trying to minimize your mortification, you think. Somehow, though, it just makes you want to call him as much yet again.

"Is that how you think of me sometimes?" Robby asks while sliding a hand down your back.

You shrug.

"Talk to me, honey," he insists.

"Around here," you begin while swallowing down the lump in your throat. "Everybody does, I think. And... I can't imagine how much that must weigh on you. How heavy it is to carry all of us; this hospital. So, I don't mean to make it worse—"

"You didn't," he interjects with a shake of his head. "It means something to me that you see me as that: a father figure. Someone to be trusted in that capacity."

You can't keep talking about this.

"It won't happen again," you assure while stuffing sterile gauze back into a supply cart.

Robby's hand retreats into a pocket. "I'm not saying that you can't. At least when we're alone together."

Your brows knit together and you turn to him. "What?"

Robby's head tilts and he studies you with a fond smile. "I haven't always done the best job at hiding my favoritism of you." He ghosts the back of his index finger down your soft cheek. "Means you get preferential treatment."

He shrugs casually. "So, if calling me that puts you at ease when you're here, you can." Pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, he shuts the drawer you've now finished with. "I'd prefer it."

It's been three days and you haven't done it again. If anything, it seems like you're avoiding him now. Every effort Robby makes to reach out to you is met with resistance when you slip from his grasp to instead work with McKay, Langdon, or even Dana.

He's chomping at the bit to pull you back to his side where you belong.

"How's my girl?" Robby asks with a playful smile while rounding on you.

Glancing up from the glossy iPad you're currently getting a quick bit of charting accomplished on, you blink up at him. "Oh. I'm okay. You?"

Robby bobs his head from side to side. "Be better if I understood why you seem to be avoiding me all of a sudden." He slides the least bit closer while resting a forearm atop the counter in front of you. "This behavior have anything to do with what happened the other day?"

Returning to the tablet, you try to flit through the thoughts in your mind like organized folders, but ultimately come up blank in terms of a reply.

Pressing the wealth of his broad chest against your side, Robby leans in closer. "I told you I was okay with it, sweetheart." Cupping your opposite shoulder in his hand, he brings his lips close to your ear. "I keep hoping you'll say it again." He shrugs. "Just to see how it feels."

"I-I already did," you stammer.

"It'd be intentional this time," he mutters. Robby watches you type for a moment. "Can you try for me? If you feel comfortable with that?"

Your fingers halt atop the digital keyboard. This seems rather important to him, but the potential of calling Dr. Michael Robinavitch a paternal name... The butterflies in your stomach are now fluttering so hard that you fear you may be sick from nerves.

"D—" you pause and swallow thickly.

"Go on, honey," he encourages. "It's just you and me."

"Dad," you whisper.

A smile tugs at his bearded lips. "Thank you," he rumbles with renewed relief blooming in his chest. "Remember, anytime we're alone. Alright?"

You tilt your head to look at him and your nose nearly brushes against Robby's because of how close he's standing. "Okay... Daddy."

You figured you'd try it. Maybe it'd feel less strange and cringe-worthy than the more formal 'dad'.

He cocks his head and squints an eye in silent debate. "Much prefer the other one," he states with a peck on your forehead.

In the last handful of weeks, you've become rather accustomed to your new... Well, you don't know what other word to use for it, other than arrangement. It took a bit more incentive on Robby's end to keep the momentum going at the beginning due to your hesitation, as well as laughing from nerves every time he tried to lay down some fatherly conviction initially, but now it's become a daily custom.

Hourly, really.

He's unaware, but his ordering you lunch a few times and offering to buy whatever it was that he glimpsed in your Amazon cart when he spied over your shoulder to see what you were window-shopping for one afternoon weren't the reasons you kept doing it. It was because of how happy it seemed to make him—how he'd beam each time you gently gripped the sleeve of his hoody with a playfully murmured 'Hi, dada' during slower moments in the ED. Robby doesn't seem to mind that one either, so you fluctuate between it and Dad.

Like this morning, when you were hopping up and down in the staff lounge, trying quite poorly to knock down a coffee cup so that you could have a bit of caffeine before your day officially began. You were just considering dragging a chair over to stand on when Robby swung inside. "Somethin' you need help with, sweetheart?"

Shrinking in embarrassment, you eye a stack of paperboard cups that're mocking you from the top shelf. "They're supposed to be kept on the counter next to the coffee pot," you complain.

He chuckles. "Honey, if you wanted coffee, you could've just called or texted me. I would've picked you up some on the way in."

With ease, he grabs the desired items and sets them down in their rightful place. "Have you ate yet?" he questions with crossed arms.

Tugging a cup free from plastic wrap, you pull out the coffee pot and begin to carefully pour. "Well... No. Not yet."

You nearly wince when he sighs.

Time for a lecture.

"Sweetheart, how many times do I have to tell you to stop leaving the house on an empty stomach? Every time you do, it's only two hours into your shift before you start shaking from low blood sugar."

You frown, then turn toward the fridge and roll your eyes while searching for creamer.

If Robby saw you do that, there'd be hell to pay for it later. He dislikes when you get bratty, even minimally. You've gathered that he prefers you sweet.

"It's a choice between breakfast, or another half hour of sleep." You unscrew the cap of caramel creamer and begin to pour. "I choose sleep," you mumble.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "God forbid you do what your father asks you to."

Tucking the bottle back away in the shared fridge, you almost burst into laughter.

Sometimes this still feels like a bizarre form of roleplay to you. Maybe if you were closer in age, or he wasn't the chief attending of the ED and so incredibly intimidating to top it all off, then you wouldn't find it hysterical.

"Not trying to make you mad," you say quietly while sipping your steaming drink. "It's not your job to worry about me. Especially when there are people coming in with heart attacks, strokes, and—"

"As my daughter, yes, it is," he states firmly with hands planted on hips.

You sip again, but very slowly to hide your smirk.

You're mostly amused because he's taking this whole thing so very seriously.

"I'll eat a bagel on my next break, ok? Or a candy bar."

He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. "This fuckin' kid," he murmurs. Lowering his chin again, he glares daggers at you through narrowed eyes. "Candy bar. So pure sugar."

You sigh, then go to step past him, until Robby grabs you by the forearm. "I will get you something from the lunch cart when they bring it around. And whatever I put in front of you, I expect you to eat. Understand?"

"Yes, dad."

He runs his thumb along the soft skin of your inner arm while silently considering. "Come back to my place with me tonight so I can make you dinner," he says with a much softer tone.

You glance up to him.

Releasing you, he cups your cheek instead. "As my..." he sighs. "I want my little girl to feel just as comfortable at her dad's place as she does at her own. And if the only way I can get you to eat something decent is by making you, then so be it."

You smile up at him while batting your lashes. "Chicken nuggets for dinner?"

His smile instantly fades while a brow is raised instead.

You snort, then take another sip of your coffee. "I'm kidding," you explain. Standing on tiptoes, you kiss his stubbled cheek. "Whatever dada wants, he gets."

On the dot two hours later, a wrapped sandwich is tossed down in front of where you sit at your work station. "Eat up," Robby barks. "Dad's orders."

Walking over to a computer cart with long, steady strides, he retrieves his readers from his scrub pocket and slides them over the wide bridge of his nose before watching you from a distance.

You look at him out of the corner of your eye and note how he only turns to the monitor in front of him once your meal is halfway gone.

Once naught is left but plastic wrap, you swivel in his direction, ball it up, then toss it into a trash can.

He nods while mouthing 'good girl' before heading into an exam room.

Your tummy squeezes excitedly when you watch him go.

Kneeling beside you, Robby rests a forearm atop the counter you're seated at charting. "You got much left to do?"

You shake your head and pluck the dictation device from your lap again. "Just the rest of this chart."

He slides a palm over your knee before giving it a solid pat. "I'll wait 'til you're done, then."

Watching as he leans back before fishing his phone out of his pocket, you nod with a grateful smile. "Ok, dada."

Slipping his glasses onto his nose, Robby slides his legs under yours.

"Oh, shoot," you hiss. There's a particular remark you meant to make on your last patient, but neglected to. God forbid you forget it again while finishing up with your current chart.

It never ends.

Swiping a stack of sticky notes from the edge of the desk, you glance around in search of an ink pen. "Could you hand me that, Robby?" you ask while nodding to a ballpoint resting next to his elbow.

He continues studying his cell, so you wait a second. Reading something, perhaps?

"Robby," you exclaim with a raised brow.

Is he ignoring you?

"Hellooo?" you drawl.

You could swear a smirk just ghosted across his lips... And with his legs beneath you, you can't just roll over there.

A figurative lightbulb dings to life then. "Dad?" you bark with growing irritation.

Locking his phone, he grants you his full attention. "Yes, honey?"

You shake your head with a sigh. "Pen."

Plucking it from the desktop, he hands it to you with a smile, accompanied by a mischievous wink.

Now being within the confines of his home, you'd think Robby would feel far more at ease. Instead, watching as you stare up at him waiting for direction, he feels suddenly out of his depth.

He doesn't want to squander this moment.

"Would you like to take a shower while I get started on dinner?" he asks with a thin smile.

"Oh," you say with a start. "Well, besides a change of scrubs in my bag—"

"You can wear something of mine," Robby suggests while pulling you along toward his bedroom.

"It'll be more like a nightgown," he remarks while holding up a dark blue t-shirt. "But at least you'll be comfortable."

You gingerly take the soft cotton garment from him and clutch it happily to your chest. "Thank you, dada."

His eyes shimmer in the low light the moon provides through the bedroom window that stands at his back, and he cups the base of your scalp. "You're welcome, sweetheart."

He dithers for a moment, then with the quiet scuffle of socked feet on hardwood floors, turns you around to lead you toward an awaiting shower.

Dining on a heaping plate of saucy, seasoned spaghetti—he made more than he should've in an effort to impress—and buttery slices of garlic toast, Robby watches from beneath his lashes and in-between bites of his meal as you gradually clean your plate.

He can't help the sense of satisfaction that settles upon him at the sight of you so safe and content in his home; at his table. Washed in his soaps, wearing his clothes, eating food he prepared for you.

He wants to ask if he's a good enough dad to you, but feels strange about it. Is he being ridiculous? Somehow immature? A man his age playing surrogate father to his work subordinate because he's that fucking desperate for a family...

It's not your problem to solve.

What if you've only kept on with this whole ruse because you're afraid of displeasing him?

Pushing the dish away, he finds that he's suddenly lost his appetite.

God, he's fucking sick.

"You okay?" you ask after a swift slurp of spaghetti, followed up by a generous sip of tinkling ice water.

Crossing his arms, you feel the energy of the room shift suddenly into that of tightened tension.

"Just lost my appetite," he rumbles.

You drop your fork and it clatters against the edge of your porcelain plate. "Did I...do something?"

He lowers his chin and shakes his head infinitesimally. "It's not you."

Your chin wobbles. "Do you want me to leave?"

Robby's eyes of darkened brown flit to yours. "No. No," he replies while leaning across the table toward you. "I'm just...getting in my head. I'm sorry, baby."

"About?" you ask warily.

"Are we—" he sighs and scrubs a calloused hand down his tired face. "Are we being foolish here? Playing at daddy-daughter like we have some right, or even valid reason to?" His eyes search yours for an answer. "You're not just going along with it to stroke my ego, right? Because it'd gut me to find out that the only reason you've let it ride like you have is to benefit me."

"Oh, Robby," you sigh dolefully.

Prying his strong arms apart, you lace your fingers between his and hold fast to him. "No. Not at all. I know sometimes it's been for the sake of playfulness. At first, did it feel a bit absurd? Sure. But not now. Now, just like you wanted, it brings me comfort and makes me feel...special. That you see me in such a way in return, I mean; want me to be that for you."

He rolls his head to the side and studies you. "Are you sure?"

Lifting his hand to your lips, you press a tender kiss to the back of it. "Yes, dad, I am."

Now consoled, his lip twitches in contentment. "C'mere," he commands with a slight jerk of his head and wave of his hand while pushing his seat back.

Rising from your own, you settle yourself sideways in his lap and circle his neck with your arms.

Sliding a palm between your legs, he encourages them apart with a careful push. "Spread your legs for me, baby."

Plopping one foot on the floor, you grant him requested access to what lies between your thighs. Pressing two fingers against already slick folds, he prods gently against your fluttering entrance.

Lying your head on his shoulder, your eyes gently close when Robby swipes a lubricated fingertip across your clit, followed by easing a single digit inside you. "That feel good, sweetheart?" he murmurs.

You card your fingers in his hair while clutching at the neck of his shirt with your other palm. "Y-yes, dada," you whimper.

"Good girl," Robby utters with a kiss.

Apparently work isn't the only place Robby sees fit to teach you at.

You feel like you're learning new things about your body right now. Like how if someone pushes down on the lower portion of your belly—right above your pubic mound—while fingering you with rapid abandon, it feels even more pleasurable than ordinary masturbation.

Interrupted only by the occasional swipe of his tongue across your swollen clit, you clutch helplessly at smooth sheets of dark grey which smell satisfyingly of Robby. His cologne: hints of pine and fresh rain, and soap: a hint of masculine musk.

His personal aroma is like that of the color evergreen. Homey, verdant, and wild.

Lifting your hips slightly, Robby pushes them back down while hammering his fingers away between your slick, stretchy walls.

"Ooooh my fucking God," you cry while letting your legs fall apart again.

"Hey," Robby pants while staring at you from beneath hooded lids. "Look at me, young lady."

Lifting your head, you force yourself up onto your forearms. "W-What?"

"I don't wanna hear foul language like that ever again. If you do say it again, I'm washing that mouth out with soap," he spits.

You throw your head back down against a fluffy pillow. "S-sorry, dada," you whine.

"It's alright, sweetheart," he coos. "Just know..." he says while swallowing the saliva that's pooling in his mouth. "That you're never too old for me to put you over my knee."

Your eyes roll back in your head. "Ah... Okay."

Pulling his fingers from your cunt, he snaps his hand, then flexes it while you start to whimper from the loss of sexual stimulation.

"Please," you blubber while digging your nails into your scalp.

"Fuckin' hand is cramping," he mutters. Easing his index and middle fingers from his non-dominant hand between your pulsing walls, he gets back to work.

"Y-You just cursed," you complain.

"Dad gets to set the rules," he states before kissing your clit with a loud smack. "Doesn't mean he's obligated to follow them."

Your head lulls to the side. "No fair," you whisper.

He chuckles. "Think you'll forgive me when you finally cum all over dada's fingers."

Cuddled against Robby's soft chest, you snuggle against warm, doughy skin that's smattered with curls of dark hair.

You love it here.

"There's something I've been thinking about," he mutters before pressing his lips to the crown of your head.

You hum in interest.

"I worry about you and burnout," he elaborates. "Some days I can tell are better than others, but... The ED is the one place where I feel like I have use; purpose. After, I come back here—to a silent, empty house where the only person I have to look after is myself."

You slide a leg between his and curl it around his calf.

"I wouldn't mind having someone to take care of. I mean, do you like living alone? Having everything resting squarely on your shoulders?" Robby questions while stroking your arm.

You yawn and plant a palm against his pec. "Are you...asking me to—"

"Move in," he interrupts. "At least temporarily to see how it works out." He lovingly kisses your brow. "I always assumed I'd have a wife one day. Kids. Maybe one of which would be a daughter." He tightens his arms around you like vines. "Seems those things found me in the end."

He chuckles darkly. "Two for one, apparently."

You smoosh your face against his chest. "Whatever dada wants," you say while readying yourself for sleep. "Dad gets."

He splays his palm against your naked back. "Thank you, honey."

He stood behind his desk in that tight-fitting dress shirt you loved so much, with those brown suspenders holding his perfectly tailored trousers up by the hem while simultaneously keeping them hanging dangerously low on his hips, and his shirt sleeves rolled up far enough to reveal every last vein stretching from his forearms to the back of his wildly gesturing hands.

The streaks of grey in his dark hair glistened in the usually so unflattering ceiling light as it danced over every inch of his tan skin. You sat there and counted them one by one, wondering what he would look like in a few years when it would all go grey and maybe, just maybe, you could convince him to grow out his beard. It would be grey, too, you thought. It would be grey and it would be beautiful because either way, it would match his piercing green eyes.

It wasn’t fair how good he looked without even trying. And he wasn’t trying, by any means. He wasn’t trying to look good or sound like sex personified while talking about a gruesome murder you were still gathering evidence for, but he still managed to do so.

You shifted a little further back in your seat to ease the erratic pulse between your thighs—to no avail.

That nose… sometimes, you looked at him and all you could think was, I want to sit on his face. You knew how good it felt when it rubbed against your clit. When his tongue was so deep inside you that you were starting to fuse.

You would have spread your legs for him right there if he’d asked, if he’d commanded you. You would have let him dive in and eat you out. You would have done the same for him, too, gotten on your knees right there and then, putting his thick cock into your hot mouth and sucking him off until he was writhing beneath you. You would have let him grab your hair and push you up against the wall, the fireplace, or one of those huge windows that gave him a perfect view of the city, and the city a perfect view of you.

You would have let him fuck you from behind in front of all of New York City until his cum was seeping out of you. Hell, you would even have let him wrap those long, slender fingers around your throat while he was pounding into you over and over and—

“Are you even listening to me?”

You snapped out of it. “I’m sorry, what?”

The corners of his mouth twitched, and fuck him, he put his hands on his hips as if he knew exactly what you'd been daydreaming about.

“You okay?” he asked.

You bit your lip. Why did he have to be standing? This way, you had a perfect view of his waist, his perfect tummy, and God, his—

“Cariño?” he sounded a little more concerned now.

“I'm fine,” you choked out. “What were you saying?”

You needed a cold shower, or a gun to your head. You just had to drop off some files after your shift, knowing he would be busy for a little while longer. You wanted to see him, yes, but this was more professional than personal. Except that it was personal. It always was with him.

Fuck. Now you were wet and embarrassed.

“I was saying that I need more evidence,” he said. “I couldn't even convene a Grand Jury with what you have so far.”

“You always need more evidence,” you said.

“Because I want a guilty verdict, not to be humiliated by a public defender in open court.”

He was always so wound up. It was sexy but utterly exhausting, considering you were trying to do your job right.

“Well,” you rose to your feet, “once I've figured out how to make evidence magically appear out of thin air, I'll get back to you. But first, I'm gonna need some sleep.”

He said your name in that low tone of his that always made goosebumps travel like dominoes down your spine. You stopped.

“C'mere,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I know you've been daydreaming about my head between your legs for the past ten minutes, and I'd like to spend the next ten giving you exactly what you want.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Rafael,” you gasped.

He smirked, reaching a hand out to you. “Come here,” he echoed, firmer this time.

He smelled like sandalwood and coffee. Like heaven and hell. Like home.

Rafael cupped your face. “Hi,” he whispered.

“Hi,” you whispered back.

Every time he looked at you, you found yourself drowning in his eyes. They were always so soft with you, so gentle and loving and full of a kind of passion—lust, even—you had never experienced before. You'd never been wanted like this before, and it was utterly terrifying yet so incredibly fulfilling at the same time.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

You barely managed a nod.

He didn't waste another second, leaning in to brush his lips against yours. It was nothing more than that, just a brush, the softest of kisses. You tried chasing him for more, but he pulled away.

Rafael placed his thumb against your bottom lip. “Shh,” he cooed. “It's gonna be a while 'til I can get out of here, so…” He traced his other hand up your thigh and under the sundress you'd decided to change into.

“So?” you asked.

“Sit your ass on my desk and spread your legs for me.”

Fuck his silver tongue. Literally.

You complied almost instantly, and he was on you like a man possessed just as fast. His lips crashed into yours. His hand tangled in your hair and pulled, hard, so your head was angled back. Teeth scraped down your throat to your collarbone, then back up to your lips.

A moan slipped past yours into his mouth, and Rafael swallowed it like it was the best meal he'd ever had. He was getting hard in his slacks, but he didn't even let you think about touching him.

Oh, if there was one view you could never get sick of, it was the sight of Rafael Barba on his knees.

“Rafa,” you breathed.

You couldn't get more vulnerable if you tried.

He shushed you again. Spanish curses tumbled from his lips. You could have sworn you heard him pray to God at the mere sight of the wet patch on your panties, and when he glanced up at you, pure adoration was all there was.

“You're beautiful,” he branded those words into your skin with his breath.

His fingers dug into your thighs as he threw them over his broad shoulders, his lips drawing trails of fire up and down the inside of your thighs, though every time he got close enough to your throbbing cunt, he pulled away again. He covered every last inch of you in him. He consumed you, and then, only then, when you were quivering from the sheer force of his lips on your skin, did he push your underwear aside.

And he feasted.

You cried out so suddenly and so fucking loudly that he reached up and slapped his hand in front of your mouth. He loved it whenever you screamed his name, but he couldn't let Carmen walk in on you like this. He didn't want the entire DA's office to know that he was eating you out, that he got you like this, because you were his and no one else's to enjoy.

You grabbed his hair.

That godforsaken nose.

Yes.

Fuck.

You shifted your hips against the thrusts of his tongue, his nose bumping your clit just right, and you dug your teeth into his palm like a fucking animal.

Rafael groaned, but he didn't stop. He would never stop. Not when he could feel what this was doing to you. Not when you were thrown back on his desk in utter ecstasy with his head between your legs, your dress bunched around your waist, and your pussy dripping wet for him as you rode his face. It was as close to heaven as he would ever get.

The knot in your belly kept growing tighter and tighter and tighter; every nerve in your body was alight with the heat of a thousand fires, and it just kept burning and burning and burning and—

Your orgasm slammed into you so hard that your vision turned from black to white to black again, and you fell.

Rafael didn't stop until the aftershocks had subsided. Until you stopped shaking and twitching, and your fingers unclenched from the upper edge of his desk. Until you finally, finally, let go of his hair and he could breathe again. Not that he would have minded to die right there, with your cum in his mouth and that sweet, sweet whine of overstimulation in his ears. He would have been a happy man if your pussy had killed him, but he preferred the thought of being able to do this for many, many years to come.

Your clit was swollen, throbbing, pleased yet angry, but that didn't stop him from giving it one more gentle kiss.

“¿Bien?” he asked.

Your eyes fluttered open. “Uh-huh,” you breathed. “Fuck.”

Rafael gently lifted your legs off his shoulders and helped you sit up.

“You sure?” he asked again.

You nodded. He looked so good with your cum glistening on his lips. They were pink, swollen, and oh-so-kissable.

“Yeah,” you said. “I just think I died there for a second.”

He chuckled breathlessly. “The feeling's mutual.”

Your eyes trailed down.

Oh.

His dress pants were adorned with a dark patch of cum right where his hard cock had been when he started kneeling at the altar of your body.

“Did you just–” You stared at him.

“I've had a long day.”

“I didn't even touch you.”

“You don't have to touch me to make me come like a 15-year-old Catholic school boy, mi amor.” His voice was deliciously rough. “You drive me fucking crazy,” he said, followed by something so filthy that his Cuban ancestors would have turned in their graves.

You reached out to cup his face in your hands. He rose to his feet with you. One kiss landed on your forehead, one on your cheek, before he pressed his lips to yours. He tasted like you and him, and you instinctively pressed closer to him.

“You gonna come home with me?” Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Make love to me?”

Rafael downright whimpered. “I still have work to do,” he said. That look in your eyes, though…

Make love to me? It wasn't right to say no to that. It was illegal to say no to that, but he had to, and you knew he did.

You nodded, slowly, lowering your forehead against his.

He inhaled your scent with another kiss to your sweaty forehead. “Wait up for me and I'll make it up to you later, okay?”

A tired smile grew on your face. “Okay,” you said.

With a heavy heart, he watched as you pulled away from him. Your hands touched until you were too far away, then you dropped his and made your way out.

He missed you already, terribly.

“I love you, mi amor,” he called after you.

You poked your head around the corner, still smiling, and said, “I love you too.”

Though it wasn't even five minutes after the door had fallen shut that his phone vibrated with a text from you.

Thanks for the orgasm, counselor.

Another ping.

Can't wait to feel you inside me x

Needless to say, he finished four hours' worth of paperwork in two.